On the day that I was expelled from my home by my uncle, I first bowed to my aunt, expressing my heartfelt gratitude for her years of nurturing care. I then warned my uncle that should he dare to strike my aunt again, I would not hesitate to take his life.

My name is Lupan, and since my birth, my parents entrusted me to my aunt's care. In the beginning, my uncle treated me with exceptional kindness, though it was not out of genuine affection for me; rather, it was due to the sporadic monetary support my parents would send him as a token of thanks for looking after me. The amount was considerable—so much that my uncle, upon becoming intoxicated, would slur happily through bleary eyes that I was his golden goose.

At the time, I was young and unaware of my parents' true occupations. This ignorance persisted until one fateful summer day when my father returned—not walking, but carried back on a stretcher, his limbs severed. His body was swathed in bandages, drenched in blood and starkly red against the white fabric.

At that moment, my father was barely clinging to life. In his dying breaths, he imparted only a single instruction: "Live as an ordinary person, lead a humble life, and never indulge in gambling!"

On that day, I shed every tear I possessed. From that moment onward, it seemed I never smiled again. Following my father's departure, my mother vanished from my life, never to return. With the cessation of financial support from my parents, my uncle's treatment of me grew increasingly harsh, escalating from verbal insults to violent outbursts.

His son, my elder cousin Rolf, soon joined in these acts of cruelty. I vividly recall the tally of my suffering over the years: between them, they had delivered 2436 slaps, 3487 kicks, and 2329 punches. The lashes from whips and the strikes from rods counted up to 336 instances. Had it not been for my aunt's protection, I fear I might have perished at their hands long ago. I nurtured a deep-seated resentment, holding onto my grudges with precision. Otherwise, I could not have retained such clarity about each inflicted wound.

In that dark time, I was unskilled in fighting and lacked the courage to retaliate. Yet, I learned the painful art of enduring strikes. Upon being thrown out of my home, I did not find myself homeless but instead followed Varg.

Varg was not his true name; he had never disclosed his real identity to me. I came to call him Varg after he instructed me to do so upon learning my name, Lupan. He came to our small town the year after my father's death and proclaimed himself the greatest magician in the world, offering to impart all his magic to me.

Indeed, his tricks were remarkable. Cards, mahjong, dice, and pai gow would dance in his hands, appearing and vanishing with uncanny agility. Thus, I began my studies under Varg's tutelage, learning what he termed "magic" from the age of seven.

Varg was a man of unparalleled nonchalance. Aside from supervising my magical practice, he spent his days indulging in wine and revelry, chasing after women. His fascination with the female form bordered on obsession; even in his sixties, he frequented establishments of pleasure almost nightly.

On occasion, Varg would procure young women for me, typically no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, with chubby faces adorned in thick layers of makeup. When one such woman, smiling artificially, presented herself before me and began to remove her clothing, I coldly uttered a single word: "Depart."

It was not that I held disdain for women; rather, I detested this particular type. My ideal companion would be gentle, obedient, and loyal—one who would revere me as king, much like the "king" in a deck of cards.

Yet one day, after a woman had lain in my embrace, breathless with exertion, she revealed a curious truth: the king in a deck actually signifies the joker.

On the day of my twentieth birthday, Varg took me to the Zui Xiang Tower, the finest establishment in our town. Within the elegantly rustic private room, Varg, with his silver hair and golden pipe in hand, remained effortlessly carefree.

"Pour the wine…" he commanded. The blue-and-white porcelain vessel contained thirty-year-old Zhu Ye Qing wine. As the liquor cascaded into the emerald-glazed bowl, it swirled joyfully, the aromatic spirit rising in the air.

"Lu, how long have you been with me?" Varg questioned, taking a leisurely puff from his pipe.

"Thirteen years, two months, and twenty-two days!" I replied.

"What have I taught you?"

"Thousand arts!"

"And what does that mean?"

"Using deception to achieve the impossible and transform night into day!"

Varg nodded slightly, seeming satisfied with my response. Tapping his pipe, he lifted the bowl toward me and declared, "With this drink, you shall graduate! From this day forth, you need not follow me any longer…"

I understood that this day would eventually arrive, but I had not anticipated it would coincide with my twentieth birthday. As the thirty-year Zhu Ye Qing flowed down my throat, a fiery heat surged from my stomach to the crown of my head. Setting the bowl down, Varg continued, "Lu, remember this: you have mastered the art of deception and entered the realm of the Thousand Arts, embarking upon the Blue Path. You are no longer an ordinary person; you are a Blue Path swindler!"

The Blue Path referred to all who spun deceit in gambling. Once you gambled, you traversed the Blue Path. Reflecting on my father's dying wish for me to lead a simple life, free from gambling, I was struck by the irony that after all these years, I had become a Blue Path swindler myself. Such is the caprice of fate.

"Lu, let me ask you one last time: do you wish to be the master or the pawn?"

"The master!" I proclaimed, for I believed no one in this world would willingly choose to be a pawn.

"Very well, if you wish to be a master, I expect you to make a name for yourself in the Blue Path world within three years as Lupan!"

Three years? Could I truly accomplish this? I felt a sense of confusion wash over me. Though I had accompanied Varg to innumerable gambling games and venues over the years, I had never participated myself. I had no idea what my skill level in the Thousand Arts truly was. Nevertheless, I nodded in agreement. Varg had once told me that the greatest challenge for a con artist lay not in technical skill but in mental fortitude. It was essential to see if, before a crowd, one could perform flawlessly with all they had learned throughout their life—a fundamental truth.

"From now on, you shall navigate the world of the Blue Path alone!" Varg's tone was light, but I glimpsed a flicker of reluctance in his eyes.

"And where is this world?" I asked softly, gazing out the window in bewilderment.

"The world begins at your doorstep!"